Writer Stones' last waltz

Maybe you guessed it already, but I haven't written in a while because my travels have since ceased. For now anyway. We've settled in Pittsburgh, a place close to home, to work, live, and save up money for the next big move in our lives. Where that'll be, I can't say.

I would be lying, though, if I said we weren't going to travel anymore. For money and convenience's sake, this will be the year of America...or maybe just the year of the rust belt. Either way, I won't be using my passport for a while, I won't be away from home for months at a time, and I'll be using English 99% of the time. Thus, Writer Stones comes to an end, as it represented transience in my life that no longer exists.

I would also be lying, however, if I said I was going to stop writing. I'm going to try to get a Pittsburgh blog going pretty soon. Maybe do some creative writing and/or publishing now that I have a solid home base to work out of. I am working full time, so these projects may come slowly, but I have ideas and all it takes is a lazy weekend to make some headway.

Ciao, y'all. It's been fun.

Hemos vuelto, pero no para siempre

Ya llevamos casi tres meses en la patria, lo que significa tres meses fuera de Pamplona, fuera de Euskal Herria, fuera de España. Esta entrada será para los que hemos dejado allí, los con que hemos compartido unas experiencias inolvidables. En esta entrada veréis como vivimos en Pensilvania (que no tiene ningún vampiro, que yo sepa).

10 Octubre 2012: Llegamos en Filadelfia sin problema. (Bueno, solo hubo problema en el lado americano. El agente estadounidense dudaba la foto de Elliot en su pasaporte. Le preguntaba varias cosas anodinas. Una molestia.) Pero salimos con buenas relaciones con el gobierno español. Les sorprendimos a unos amigos que no nos esperaban. Y seguía la borrachera que ya había durado 2 semanas con las despedidas.

Amigos y Elliot tomando en una taberna que se llama Royal Tavern, ubicada en Passyunk Avenue.

Nos echaron de un bar en el centro a las 2...lo podéis creer?!

El ayuntamiento de Filadelfia, el edificio de albañilería más alto del mundo. 

En el sur de la ciudad, la calle donde vivía yo hace más que 4 años.

El metro de Filadelfia (SEPTA). No es tan conveniente como lo de Barca.

Este pan se llama "bagel" (bei-gul); tiene semillas de sesamo encima, y espinacas, queso Filiadelfia
y pimientos piquillos adentro. Se sirve este "Bike Shop Bagel" en Satellite Café en el oeste de Fili. 

13 Octubre 2012: Llegamos en el pueblo, Greensburg (gríns-burg), donde viven los padres. Seguro que nos habéis oido hablando de la pizza de Greensburg, la que es de la mejor que hemos probado en el mundo. Un pueblo de casi 15.000, el GBG es un sitio tranquilo con una subcultura de arte y medicina homeopática.

Vista del centro del pueblo, desde la calle de los padres Swauger. Y un camión de correos.

Seguro que unos han visto el tatuaje en las costillas de Elliot, lo que tiene una imagen del 

tribunal de Greensburg (se ve en la parte derecha).

El campo de fútbol americano para los futboleros de colegio y de universidad Está en el centro.

Third Street. Estoy sentada en un banco fuera del edificio de seguridad
social. Por arriba está la oficina de correos y la biblioteca.

31 Octubre 2012: Celebramos Halloween. La familia de Elliot y yo nos vestimos como los personajes de la peli "Wizard of Oz". A ver si os suenan los disfraces...

4 Noviembre 2012: Elliot votó por la primera vez. Desafortunadamente, su candidato preferido no ganó.

13 Noviembre 2012: Elliot y yo firmamos un contrato para una casa en Pittsburgh. Que nos visitéis!

21 Noviembre 2012: Conseguí un trabajo que no es enseñar inglés. Empezaré en enero como ayudante administrativa en el único centro de partera en Pittsburgh.

Las cosas que me costaron en acostumbrarme: tomar vasos tan grandes de cerveza, no comer queso de oveja con regularidad, conducir por todas partes

Las cosas estereotípicas que he hecho: comer mucha pizza, comer muchas hamburguesas, comer muchas alitas de pollo, comer muchas papas fritas (bueno, comer mucho en general)

Ya empieza un capítulo nuevo, pero tenemos otro hogar en Pamplona. Gracias a todos que conocimos, por vuestra amistad, bondad y hospitalidad. Claro que vamos a volver.

Philly to Pamplona

A little over a month ago, three Philadelphia phriends decided to visit us in Pamplona. It was like a vacation, because they were leaving their houses and their city to see something new and far away. It was also like a vacation because none of us were going to work. Elliot and I decided to halt our classes and enjoy a week with close buds.

However, they were coming to a place where people live. Leaving San Fermín out of the equation, Pamplona's a pretty normal town. You have your concerts on the weekends, dive bars, good restaurants, few museums, vintage shops, and bus stops. You have the folk who boast about being born and bred here, and the teenagers that complain about how boring it is. Our friends were coming to a city where people don't often come to vacation. So while they came to see a typical place, it was an atypical getaway. Get it? (Sheesh, and I was going to try to squeeze all that into a snappy post title.)

They seemed to really enjoy their time here, which pleased us as hosts. Plus, I got to blend in with them as tourists and take out my camera a lot more!

Thus, the following visual trip log:

Rainy Friday afternoon? No need to force tourist outings on your guest! Just stay in and play
guitar, then go out to drink later.

This kind of street vibe can be found during San Fermín Txikito (chee-kee-toe), the lesser known
San Fermín celebration, and for good reason. This weekend involves all the same traditions as the
infamous bull-slaying blow out (minus bull-slaying), except people of Pamplona actually stick
around for it. Its name translates to "Little Running of the Bulls". In this photo (and the video
below), parents are watching their children be run down by a dude with a bull head on two wheels.

While San Fermín Txikito is a special event, street celebrations are not uncommon in Pamplona's
old part. It seems like every other Saturday, we walk downstairs and there is a parade marching
outside our door, or a concert in some plaza. This photo shows (kind of) the crowd density
during a weekend of fiestas.

Typical post-lunch scene: cubatas (mixed drinks) and guitar performance from talented friends.
What's not in this picture is the beautiful salads and rack of lamb we feasted on beforehand.

You never know when you'll walk through the Plaza del Castillo and be surprised by fireworks.

Late night foosball @ Bar Terminal. Talking shit and making a fool of yourself in an empty bar.

Props to Matt who played an acoustic show with Elliot at a neighborhood bar called Onki-Xin,
despite the language barrier and only a day's notice.

While we didn't plan this, our friend's trip coincided with a union strike in Pamplona (Sept. 26).

We also made the hike up a mountain to visit an abandoned Franco-era
fort that was used as a prison for several years. It was like Eastern State,
but with a creepier, fascist air about it.

Bullet holes, possibly from the fort being under siege, or the 1938 prison break (see link above).

In some ways, a vacation can be more enlightening when you follow someone else's routine. Granted, we weren't working when our friends were here, but we went to our favorite spots and made them some choice meals. It was more about showing them how we live here, which we've learned from the people who actually do live here. It's exciting to show someone around, to introduce them to new things that were once new for you. I'm more often on the other end.

Traveling with style

Have you ever purchased something, thinking it was really neat, and then never used it? That was me for about 2 years, up until San Fermín really. I mean, I used it maybe once or twice before that, but only recently did I discover how fucking GREAT the p-style really is.

Via www.thepstyle.com. Check it out and buy one online, or visit your local co-op/alternative 

storefront. I purchased mine at Mariposa Co-op in Philadelphia.

What the hell is a p-style you ask? Well, as you can see in the photo, it's a convenient little funnel that enables someone (like me!) without a penis to pee standing up.

And during a party like San Fermín, where the lines for the bathroom are miles long, and all the dudes pee in the streets anyway, it made my experience that much better.

Now, I carry it with me everywhere. Even when I'm in a bar, it serves in preventing me from having to actually sit on the piss-covered toilet.

An aside about toilets in bars in Pamplona: they suck. Many of them do not have toilet seats, and thus are uncomfortable and generally covered in pee. When you forget your p-style, you usually have to hover over the toilet, sometimes while also trying to keep the door shut because the lock is broken. I've asked myself a couple times, in that situation, if someone were to try to push open the door (because they're drunk and have to pee, not for any violent reasons), would I let them in to save myself from peeing all over my legs or would I do just that? And I decided that I would do the latter, just to prevent whoever from seeing me squatting over the toilet. Then I would go home because I have piss on my pants.

There are many FUNnel alternatives to the p-style. Rather than go on about them, I'll just give you the pros and cons of my model:

Pros: It's blue. And it's longer than other models I've seen so the pee stream runs away from my body and about six inches from my toes, unless I spread my legs a bit (which I've learned to do since getting sprayed a few times). I literally just unzip my pants, and stick it between my legs and pee on whatever wall or person I want to.

Con: There's only one. It's rigid plastic. I've seen others that are foldable, and thus easier to transport. But I think I'll eventually fix this problem by punching a hole in mine and putting it on my keychain.

I can't wait to take this newfound but long-time-coming habit back to the states. Forget holding it in on a car trip! Forget looking frantically for a place that's far enough away from peering eyes! Forget bushes and dumpsters! Forget toilet-hovering!

I've got it all now.

Which vert are you?

I contemplate human behavior a lot, including my own. After reading "Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking" I realized that this contemplative trait makes me an introvert. The book also provoked more contemplating, which I find interesting -- a book about introverts making me more introverted.

Anyway, it relates to my travels in 2 ways:

1. Traveling involves talking to strangers and moving out of your comfort zone. This can involve a lot of stress for an introvert.

2. The book pointed to the United States as the most extroverted country in the world, which I get. The author mentioned Europe as a sort of conglomerate. And she talked about introverts in Chinese communities in California, which I suppose was her representation of Eastern countries. Let's just say her cross-cultural analysis was not particularly awesome. I understand, after all, because you can't load your book with research (if it even exists) from every corner of the world. But it still left me with want to mull over what I see here in Spain. And maybe get some feedback!

The United States has an extroverted reputation because of its focus on speaking your mind, taking charge, and getting ahead -- that's in social circles, work environments, and educational expectations. However, I feel that we also harbor some pretty firm, albeit unwritten, rules regarding personal space. I find that people in Spain don't hesitate at all in approaching a friend, keeping their face very close when speaking to them, or touching them in a friendly way. The same behavior would be considered sort of invasive back home. 

Americans also have a custom of being unnecessarily polite. Not saying that people in Spain are rude, they're just honest. When friends here offer to buy me a beer, I used to say no at first: "No, no, I'll get one! Let me buy YOU a beer!" But they were always very persistent, and often won. Some even confronted me about trying to be polite. So I've learned just to say yes. Because they aren't offering me a beer out of politeness, they just want to buy me a beer. In the same way, people here are not hesitant to tell you if you're getting fat, if they don't like the food, or they despise the music. Not to be rude, just to be honest. On the other hand, the U.S. loves their white lies because they prevent potential conflict.

This brings me to a point that the author of "Quiet" was trying to make. She cited the following statistic a few times: studies show that 1 out of every 2 or 3 people is an introvert. So, while a country like the U.S. may highly value extroverts in many aspects of life, anywhere from 33% to 50% of us are introverted. In other words, we're pushing to raise children and young adults with spunk and pizazz, but some of us just don't have it in our genes. Perhaps our reputation doesn't really speak the truth.

I imagine this statistic can roughly be applied to the Spanish population as well. But I'll still echo that social customs here in Spain are particularly extroverted. So I'm not sure these labels mean the same universally.

Of course, another point that the author makes is that none of us are purely bred introverts or extroverts. We've all got a bit of both, some more than others. (Believe it or not, there is such a thing as an ambivert.) So my love for travel and seeing new places, despite also having a love for Saturday nights at home, makes sense.

Overall, the book was very enlightening, and relates to so many people: employers, employees, parents, teachers, lawyers, etc. (In other words, anybody who comes into contact with introverts, or is one.)

I mentioned feedback at the beginning of the post, and I mean it. Let me know what you think, what experiences you've had as an introvert or extrovert.

Detoxing in more ways than one

In short, the past 5 weeks have been very busy.

In long, I made a lot of money (and spent a lot of money) in the past 5 weeks. The first part can be attributed to working 10-hour days of non-stop lesson-planning, document-translating, and bike-commuting. The second part can be attributed to Spain-traveling, beer-drinking, and rent-paying.

In the past 2 weeks. I climbed a mountain, reached two different bodies of salt water, and had wine poured on my head repeatedly. We had friends visiting, with as many as 6 sleeping in one room at any given time. We made food together, slept together, got drunk together (and thus had our hangover together). This can all be attributed to San Fermín (i.e. the Running of the Bulls).

Thus, my blog went on the backburner.

In many ways San Fermín was like...

a party, where there are endless friends, shenanigans, alcohol (well, not really endless alcohol), and shit on the floor.

a war, where every time you leave your house you have to be prepared for battle.

an apocalypse, where all the stores are shut down and the only ones that remain open are taking anything you have, and no one really cares what day or time it is.

a commune, where 13 people can peacefully share approximately 50 square meters and only one bathroom, even if they only just met each other.

a break, where I didn't have to think about work or checking my goddamn email.

Now, I'm on a different kind of vacation. There's no one in the house except the two of us, and a dog. And I will have very few classes this month. So I'll be at home, writing as much as I can.

At the Txupinazo in the Plaza del Ayuntamiento. See those blue signs in the back of the crowd? 

That's our building. We came downstairs about an hour before the rocket, and we still didn't get 

much further than 5 meters from our front door. (via eleconomista.es)

Making judgments about judgers

How often do you attribute your behavior to your background? Are you loud because you're Italian? A good dancer because you're Black? Cultured because you're French? Drunk because you're Irish?

What about the not-so-positive things? Are you lazy because you're Spanish? Selfish because you're American? Bullheaded because you're Australian? Shy because you're Korean?

In my opinion, I was brought up with the rise of political correctness. I grew up in a house where potentially offensive jokes were made, and often. But I went to a school where we learned to avoid generalizations and stereotypes (of white people anyway). Making judgments across the board was bad, and still is.

But when you're sitting at the dinner table with people from all over (Columbia, Sweden, Turkey, US, Spain, Germany), generalizations are practically unavoidable. We don't judge, necessarily, but maybe we make statements like "You are that way and I am this way because you're from there and I'm from here." And then maybe you laugh if it's funny, or keep talking if it's not.

Perhaps it is because we are in a diverse environment that we feel comfortable pointing out our differences. We can talk about skin color, eye shape, and language without offending each other. And we don't ever intend to offend.

I can't help but wonder, does this only happen when you travel?


An example: people here keep telling me how mannerly and hospitable latinos are compared to Spaniards. The generalization can range from something like "They'll always invite you to a drink or a meal" to "They don't know how to say no." It doesn't seem so bad though, because Spaniards aren't afraid to say it in front of latinos, and the latter don't seem offended. So no harm, no foul, right?


Another example: people here tend to stereotype the population of young people studying abroad in Spain. These kids are often characterized by poor Spanish-speaking skills, lots of drinking, and white socks with cargo shorts. They're seen as naive and vulnerable, but also great party-mates. These abroad-ers are privileged, for sure. But does that mean they warrant generalizations?


A final example: friends here always say the people of Pamplona are very guarded, so it's difficult to get to know someone. The population of Pamplona is described as closed-off, suspicious, and maybe even stubborn. I always want to argue, because I've met many great people from Pamplona. Then again, they seem to be people that have traveled. 


I don't think this phenomenon is limited to transient circumstances. I think it has become more apparent to me because I'm often in culturally/ethnically/linguistically diverse environments. Most of the time, I don't think twice about it, because my friends never have bad intentions when they make certain speculations about differences between people. But...I was always told you can't do that. You can't take one example, and generalize it to a whole sect of people.


Maybe it's because I am the one that's self-conscious of being stereotyped. I hate to think that there are people in this very city who dislike me because of my background. But shit, who complains about being stereotyped as an American? I feel like a fuckin' chump whining about how people might pin me as fat, stupid, and cruel -- because I'm not, duh. The thing is, though, I tend to talk a lot in conversations. And halfway through, I realize that I'm talking a lot. I think, is that because I'm American and I feel I should dominate conversations, or is that because I'm me? Hard to tell. So I shut up so they don't think I'm just another big loudmouth.


There are times, though, where I can't let a generalization slide. Maybe it's coming from an unexperienced mouth, or a vindictive soul. So I take the opposite stance, even if I think part of what the person is saying might be true, just because I don't think they know enough to make the conclusion they're making. Is that pretentious of me? Perhaps. I guess it's just the way I try to mediate my own generalization tendencies as well as my need for fairness and accuracy.

An good example of this, I think, would be this guy. Although I don't prefer to give him publicity, because he's just another businessman, that blog post made me think.

Well, first it made me indignant. He could've met a completely different world of people and had a very different outlook. He acknowledges this, and yet continues to generalize Americans as sensitive, overly positive, religious, etc.

The thing is, though, I agree with a lot of things he says, because I've met a lot of people similar to those he describes.

However, I'd be willing to argue to the death with him --not in an effort to defend my country or any bullshit like that-- but because I grew up in that country, and I think I know it better. I will not leave Spain after a year, and draft a list of reasons why it sucks. One year spent traveling or living in a country does not represent the experience of a childhood, a family, or imprisonment in that country. Ya dig?

Anyway, enough rambling from me. Stay tuned for some posts about neighborhood celebrations, American bands in Barcelona, and semi-annual updates on teaching English.

Nothin' to write home about

When I wake up, I have to climb over Elliot's huge (to me) sleepy body because my side of the bed is against the wall. I suppose I could stand straight up and walk forward until my feet drop off the bed, but that always seems a lot harder in the morning. It's worse when he's on his side; then it's practically like jumping a hurdle.

I walk into the kitchen, rubbing my eyes, to put some water on the stove for green tea. This gives me just enough time to grab my computer, my notebook, and a pen out of the bedroom, leaving Elliot to sleep peacefully without the tick-tack-ticking of my keyboard. By then the water is at a rolling boil; the burner I use gets too hot for rice cooking, but it's perfect for a quick cup of tea.

I finally sit down in the living room with the computer open in front of me on the coffee table, my notebook and pen on my left, and a steaming mug on my right. And I work.

Because, you know, that's what people do to make money and make a living. My job might not be ideal for some -- hell it's not even ideal for me -- but it does allow me to rent an apartment here in Pamplona, pay for local/organic/artisanal food, indulge in the occasional big night out, but work less than 25 hours per week.

Well, shit if this doesn't get old, too. I'm not yet ready to come home, but work is work. And work in Spain doesn't necessarily beat work in Philadelphia or anywhere else in the US, just because it's in Spain. I've finally achieved here the routine that I've had everywhere else that I've ever lived (i.e. Greensburg and Philadelphia).

Get up. Go to work.
Leave work. Eat. Drink with your friends.
Go on a trip. Forget about work 'til Sunday.
Get up on Monday. And go to work.


Part of me is conflicted. What benefit is there to living in Spain when you work/don't make quite enough money, which prevents you from exploring everything you came here to see?

The other part of me is like "Duh doofus, you knew that when you came here."

Damn it. She's right. I came here to learn a language, not to spend all my money waltzing through Europe. I just hope family and friends aren't too bummed out to hear upon our return that we never went to Amsterdam or Paris or Berlin or anywhere cool. (You know that Spain is always at the bottom of everyone's list of places to visit in Europe. You know it.)

Anyway, the routine always sparks another tendency in me: the fantasy of something to look forward to. So, all of a sudden, in the midst of my post-college exotic getaway, I'm starting to think about my next step. Where do we go after we leave Europe?

Believe me, the "plan" changes all the time. A few stellar examples...

1. The better place where they speak Spanish. Leave Spain in December to come home for the holidays. See family, friends, and "The Hobbit." Then hop a flight to Cancun in January to stay at hammock hostels in the Yucatan for 2 months or so. Basically avoid Pennsylvania winter at all costs.

2. The place that totally contradicts the reasoning for #1. Leave Spain in December to come home for the holidays. Find an internship for Elliot in Alaska. Spend 6 months writing and learning to fish and hunt. Embrace the cold by investing in super warm socks and long underwear.

3. The place where all our friends and family live. Leave Spain in December to come home. Stay in Pennsylvania for a year at most. Work a shit ton and save up money to achieve one of the above plans, or something better. Maybe go on a bike trip because we're due.

Is it because the grass just looks greener? Or because I'm at a point in my life where settling makes me restless? I'd like to think the latter, because there are times when I really, really like it here. When I don't want to leave in December. There are also times when I think I should return to a city I know, because I miss the people and places there so much. I just think I owe it to myself to see more before I stay put anywhere.

Doesn't mean train rides through southern France don't get fucking boring. Doesn't mean living in a city with people you love doesn't get fucking old.

We move around and we change our minds. Doesn't mean we're weak or not dedicated. But yeah, it definitely means I don't know what I want.

PS. To any concerned family members, Elliot and I have not made any decisions you don't know about, so no worries. Just humor us, I guess.

Investing in a temporary home

When Elliot and I first got here, within the first 2 weeks, we had spent somewhere around $2000.

We knew we were going to buy bikes, so that $600 expense was expected. But then I saw some front/rear panniers that I liked. And for safety's sake, we had to buy locks and helmets. That all racked up another $200.

When we found a place to live, we anticipated paying the rent up front. So we shelled out $400 for January. Oh, but then there was last month's rent, too. And some compensation for the 10 days remaining in December at the time. So our first rent payment was more like $900.

On our first night in the new place, we shivered in our thin little sleeping bags, as the winter air rolled off the Pyrenees right through our old, drafty windows. It was time to get some bedding. This also proved to be very expensive as we had to buy the largest comforter Spain had to offer; another $250 with sheets.

Shit, that's only $1950. Oh wait, yeah, there were the English textbooks, the rosemary and thyme plants, the pay-as-you-go cell phones, a few pieces of furniture, and some big gourmet Navarran meals. I guess I underestimated after all.

Anyway, the point I'm trying to make is that moving is expensive, especially when you can't bring the things you already have on the airplane with you. Of course, there are necessities: shelter, transportation, food. What's really hard is paying money for things you don't really need; rather, things that just make you feel better, more comfortable. When your home is transient, minimalism is key.

But I'm not trying to live out of a suitcase. I like putting shit out on display: postcards, pictures, Kinder egg surprises. I like being surrounded by objects, colors, and smells that make me feel at home.

And the kitchen! It's hard to tolerate a less-than-ideal kitchen: without pot holders, without a good knife, without bowls, without storage space. Sure, I could make do with what's here. But then I'm living differently than I would naturally.

Little by little, I'm investing in this place, even if I'll only be here a year. In the end, I can bring some things home: panniers, paring knife, maybe even some bike parts. But most of it I'll give away, or leave for the next inhabitant to use. Although I'm conflicted about some of the purchases I've made, I'm more comfortable here now than I was in the beginning.

BEFORE

AFTER

As I said before, the kitchen is important to me. Adding some orange color while keeping the unavoidable fluorescent lighting helped energize this room a bit (i.e. less hospital-like). Also, what you don't see is that I scrubbed the awful grease stains off the wall and ceiling, and also sealed the gap between the counter and tile to avoid mold growth. Workin' woman I am!

BEFORE

AFTER

I never realized how important a table was to me until I lived four months without one. We used to eat at the tiny counter in the kitchen or in front of the TV. Now I don't feel so embarrassed about inviting people over for dinner. In fact, we're thinking of starting a cards night.

Adding some color and decorations (home-made masks by roomie) and arranging a common bookshelf complete with knickknacks has made this room functional and comfortable, whereas it used to just be, well, the entryway.

BEFORE

AFTER

Again, color can change everything. And all this paint was paid for by the landlord (woo!).

BEFORE

AFTER

We decided not to paint our room, but I did move some furniture around to open it up a little bit. Handywoman Sarah also fixed the armoire on the right that was causing us so much trouble (the back panel had fallen off and so the sides would bow out causing the shelves and our clothes to fall all the time).

BEFORE

AFTER

Pow! New shower curtain, and a shelf made from an Ikea CD case, painted orange -- makes all the difference.

Maybe there were some unnecessary changes, but like I said, I don't want to live minimally. Most of these things were second-hand, and none of them will be thrown away in the end.

Of course the Metallica clock is stupid, but with one battery, it works! And now I don't have to
buy another clock.

I was just using dish rags to avoid burning myself, but these pot holders allow me to hold
something for more than 3 seconds.

When I saw the same incense holder I had in high school, I had to get it. Plus our hallway stinks
like shit all the time.

Sometimes I think it will be quite a while before I live anywhere for more than a year or two. But that shouldn't mean that my homes look less like homes, or that they function without a solid cutting board. I feel compelled to make where I live more comfortable, because I'm a homebody and I spend a lot of time...at home.

It's just that dumb minimalist sustainability nut on my shoulder that's telling me how much of an impact traveling can have as far as consumption goes. Stupid hippy.

Skiing down the mountain of my emotions

I've tried a lot of new things since my arrival in Spain.

Rabbit, horse, octopus, lamb.
Patxaran, ratafía, Jagermeister.
Haggling, apologizing, joking [in Spanish].

So when our friends invited us to a weekend in Hernani and a Saturday skiing on the slopes of Gourette, France, I didn't think twice. I just said yes.

It wasn't until I was on my ass at the bottom of a practice hill after having shoved off for the first time that I realized I might not be so great at it.

I'm not sure why, but before even trying, I was in the mindset that skiing was pretty simple. After seeing the "Aspen" episode of South Park a dozen times, I figured I would french-fry when I wanted to pick up speed, and pizza when I wanted to stop. So there I was, at the top of the same slope where all the French toddlers were taking lessons. I used my poles to thrust forward and found myself accelerating a bit too fast. I turned my knees inward, trying to pizza as much as possible, but I continued to hurl toward a line of people at the bottom. I let my ski poles drag on the snow and squatted down eventually coming to a stop. I got up laughing, gloves already soaked, but I was a bit shaken. Skiing wasn't something I was just going to pick up. It wasn't like riding a bike. It took a lot more focus and balance, which are not my strong points.

Later, though, I started having fun. I was still falling on every run, but we had progressed to an actual slope with turns and banks. They called it "Happy Place". I was feeling pretty good. We even got some action shots of me on two feet. I was french-frying a bit more, only pizza-ing when necessary, and I was excited to go again each time we got to the bottom.

We all decided to move onto something different, but on the same level. Like I said, I was in a good mood so I was game. I should've just stayed on the ground when I missed the opportunity to sit with my friends on the ski lift. I was swaying in the air by myself, watching the skiers underneath me. I was searching for a second Happy Place, but all I could see were wide, steep slopes. I had a bad feeling and we weren't even halfway up the lift; but I ignored it. What good was it going to do me then?

I stared out over the slope -- it was level blue, not level green as we thought -- and continued to force a smile even though my heart was racing. I lightly pushed forward to follow the others who had already shoved off. Suddenly, it was like that first practice run. I was going too fast, and pizza-ing wasn't slowing me down enough. I twisted my body and dragged my poles, making myself fall. Putting my skis in a perpendicular position, I lifted myself back up on wobbly legs. Elliot and the others had stopped a bit further down the hill, waiting for me.

"Come on, Sarah! It's okay!" And then some instructions in Spanish on how to zig-zag down the hill, rather than diving straight down. It didn't matter. The mere thought of twisting my body even slightly flooded my brain with thoughts of picking up momentum, going too fast, not being able to stop, flying off a hillside and busting my skull on ice and rocks. I was absolutely paralyzed. And I started to sob a little.

Suddenly, I was 16 and I was in Mexico. I was trying to make a deal with this vendor selling ceramic Aztec calendars at the pyramids in Teotihuacan. He handed me the piece so I could examine it, but I let it drop and shatter on the desert ground. I was mortified; and even more so when this man, who was obviously worse off than me, apologized and offered to give it to me for nothing. I tried to say, in broken Spanish, that I could not possibly accept, that I would pay double what he was asking. I walked away humiliated, and when the first person asked me what was wrong, I burst into tears and buried my face in Elliot's shirt.

Elliot inched his way back up the hill to help me. I apologized, not only because I didn't mean to get so upset; but also because I had a feeling the rest of my day wouldn't get any better. I had reached my peak of anxiety and fear, and I ended up walking or falling down what was left of the run. The muscles in my butt and legs had also grown tired, and so maneuvering haphazardly down the hills was even more difficult.

I was shaken up and exhausted. I felt like a wet blanket, but I didn't want to be. I felt unable to express myself in any language, unable to cheer myself up. I wanted to disappear so my friends could have fun.

Traveling has always seemed sort of against my personality. I consider myself very much an introvert, but at the same time I truly enjoy meeting new people and seeing new places. I also like being with Elliot, who is widely known as the most social of all butterflies. So I'm often in situations that make me anxious or on edge. Normally, it doesn't phase me. I may not be outgoing or flamboyant, but I remain interested and eager. But there have been a handful of moments in my life where this anxiousness has caught up with me, where I feel like imploding.

I suppose I'm telling you this, not only because it involves travel, exploration, and a bit of culture shock -- but also because, like my writing, my feelings (bad or good) are not something I put on display very often.

Going underground

Music, for myself and many of the people I know, is the glue that binds us. It often represents a state of mind, be it political or inebriated, to which friends can relate. Not only does it facilitate a successful chill session, but your music tastes can let people know how you like to feel, even if it doesn't show on the outside. Throughout my life, I have associated a kind of music (hell, sometimes I can narrow it down to a fuckin' song) with the people I know and love. 

The most all encompassing word I can think of is alternative, and that's what we tend to be. Our sexualities, our politics, our food, our clothes, our language, and our music reflect an alternative to what is considered mainstream, acceptable, or normal.

Continuously, to my surprise, I've found that this glue might be contained only within the US, perhaps just Pennsylvania. As I meet the alternative folk of Pamplona, we share a lot of things, but music isn't usually one of them. This has perpetuated a long series of thoughts about music, the scene, friendship, differences, etc. which I will try to get into here, as coherently as possible.

Take our trip to Elizondo last weekend: it's a rural little town north of Pamplona, very close to the French border. Elliot and I accompanied our friend in his camper to his band's show at Elizondo's gaztetxea (pronounced gaz-ste-che). Now, the best English to Basque translation we can come up with is infoshop, and even that phrase doesn't have a whole lot of meaning for some people.

In a lot of ways, this show was what I was used to in Philly.

You know, a lot of young people, makeshift stage, shit on the floor, BO smell, etc. There were posters promoting other shows or political protests plastered on the walls, folks drinking beer and smoking cigarettes, and random shouts and screams in between songs.

The differences were interesting though. Besides the in-house bar and the rural location, this show was distinct from anything I had ever experienced in Philly or Pittsburgh. This was mostly due, I think, to the persistence of tradition in everything unconventional.

Before the show, we marched through the town with other attendees and a band of drums, flutes, and violins. This folky spectacle was not really rooted in anything indie (i.e. bearded 20-somethings playing soft tunes), nor was it a harkening to old times (bearded 20-somethings playing the banjo). This tradition maintains itself as just that. We marched for an hour or so, stopping at a few bars along the way so musicians and marchers alike could wet their whistles and enjoy the night.

After the parade, people sat down to dinner (vegan-friendly) provided by the gaztetxea. While potlucks and the like certainly aren't foreign ideas to the alternative scenes in the US, I wouldn't call them common. Furthermore, we usually don't cook for 40+ people pre-show. After dinner, we heard bottles of patxaran clinking as people served themselves and passed them down the table. Eating, and eating with a group, is very integral to Navarran culture. This goes for its subcultures as well. I can't tell you how many times I've heard someone say to me, "Here in Navarra, we eat well, and we drink well."

Finally, the band was not punk at all. Nor was it metal, hardcore, or noise. It was an overall feel-good band with flamenco, reggae, and funk influences. That's not a bad thing, it's just...different. The singer, wonderful. The band, exceptional. The music, definitely rooted in genre(s) that have been popular in Spain (in some cases, across the world) for a long time. From what I could understand of the lyrics, it seems like they use words as a way of challenging norms, rather than the music. In the US, there are a lot of bands that do both, but the music is always somewhat (often very) provocative. However, the band we saw last weekend was pretty chill. Again, not a bad thing.

I wouldn't say my tastes in music are limited. But I will admit that I have some narrow perceptions of what it is to be alternative, or what it is to challenge a system. Sometimes, I think I will butt heads with people due to their ideas of what is radical. Consequently, I miss out on the opportunity to see the divergences in people. I neglect to see their extremes. And so dulls my own ax against a mutual evil we might have, figuratively speaking. 

Of course, I have my own nuanced philosophies, which I tend to hold back due to a fear of butting heads with people who think differently. People who think differently because they were socialized differently.

A question I ask myself, and now I ask you: How does the conversation begin?